


Rejoins-Moi

by pieckaboo



Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse), Resident Evil - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Bittersweet Ending, Bogotá - Freeform, Canon Universe, Colombian Carlos Oliveira, Cultural Differences, Drunken Confessions, F/M, Interracial Relationship, Long-Distance Relationship, Minor Violence, Mixed French-Japanese Jill Valentine, Partners to Lovers, Post-Canon, Relationship Study, Resolved Sexual Tension, Romance, Sexual Content, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, felt inspired to beef up the jill/carlos tag so here i am!, minor Spanish, rekindling love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-20
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:33:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 18,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22307971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pieckaboo/pseuds/pieckaboo
Summary: A year after the destruction of Raccoon City, Jill and Carlos make up for lost time in an emotional reunion and rekindle old feelings.Maybe some things can survive in the ashes of a burned city.But just as fate brings them together again, it can easily tear them apart.
Relationships: Carlos Oliveira/Jill Valentine
Comments: 158
Kudos: 340





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Woo! First fic of the new year/decade!  
> (Okay, okay, I know I have other fics that need to be updated BUT the carlos/jill tag is severely lacking and I'm super hyped for the remake after seeing both trailers.. I can't help it!)  
> This diverges from canon, takes place after the re3 ending. I'd like to think Jill and Carlos still keep in touch but damn, guess that's what fanfic is for. *Shakes fist at Capcom*  
> Important note: I've always headcanonned Carlos as Colombian (?) Capcom says he's "South American" so like, I had to take some liberties there. (Fine by me, I guess. As a Latina myself, it's nice to write for a character I can at least somewhat relate to culturally!) Jill's mixed heritage is also heavily emphasized. (What can I say? Interracial couples are just too powerful so it's definitely a major theme of this fic.)
> 
> Title inspired by the lovely French song, [Rejoins-Moi](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kgjiDE184Vw), which translates to "Meet Me."

The bar is too damn loud.

A fight breaks out by the pool table as Carlos downs one more shot of spiced rum and lifts himself from his less-than-comfortable seat on a tattered old barstool, figuring he’s dealt with more than enough violence and deafening noise to last him a lifetime.

Mercenaries and military grunts often frequent this joint, as do some of the most gorgeous women around these parts of the city. Bogotá born and raised, Carlos had returned to his old life after Raccoon City’s destruction, and being a hired gun with a notable rep, he’s always welcomed back to this seedy district of his hometown with open arms.

A woman eyes him from across the bar, winking as she flirtatiously puckers her lips.

Carlos looks away, and walks out.

Tonight he has no desire for a one-night stand or some frivolous fling. His tainted sobriety does nothing to quell thoughts of Raccoon City; its destruction, its putrid smell of rotting flesh and charred debris.

In spite of his vivid recollection of blood-stained walls, streets littered with walking corpses, and lab-rat monsters five times his size, he finds solace in the memory of _her_.

Jill Valentine.

A year has passed since he’d last seen her. Heard her voice. Held her in his arms. They’d met a number of times after escaping Raccoon City. Always late. Always in secret.

Carlos hadn’t meant to fall in love with her. Told himself they were merely finding comfort in one another after surviving the horrors of those nights isolated in a city damned to hell.

But the words inexplicably slipped from his mouth while they made love in a hotel on the outskirts of some sleepy Midwestern town. He’ll never forget the soft gaze of her eyes, the light sheen of sweat on her flushed face, her faint moans caressing his neck with every shaky exhale.

Jill’s only response had been a kiss. No words. Then another slow, deep kiss before fastening her arms around him, clinging to him as they climaxed together.

She was gone before sunrise. Left a note in which, even to this day, he still can’t bring himself to read.

Carlos hadn’t expected otherwise. Hell, he had no expectations whatsoever – but something inside him had ached in her absence. Mourned the loss of something so potent, so overwhelming, so fucking _surreal_.

A string of mirthless chuckles spew from his throat, the realization all but spoiled amid his inebriated state. He staggers across the dim parking lot and into the nearest phone booth, fishing his pockets for whatever loose change hadn’t fallen out in the process.

He still has her contact info, had long since committed her number to memory, and although being in different parts of the world makes it a bitch to keep in touch, he can’t be half-assed to care if he might wake her up or if he has a job the next morning.

He needs to hear her voice. Needs to know she’s safe.

Phone pressed against his ear, Carlos thumbs each number on the pad and waits. The other end of the line rings once. Then twice. Then three times. Then-

_“Please leave your message after the tone.”_

Fuck.

It’s an automated voice. Jill never bothered to personalize her answering machine.

Which means Carlos only has fifteen seconds to spit it out.

“Jill…” he begins, slowly so as not to slur his words. “It’s me.”

_Deep breath. Relax. Don’t fuck this up._

“It’s… been a while.”

_Stop. Just relax. Calm down._

“I just want to know how you’ve been.”

_Enough. Hang up._

“I…”

_Hang up._

“I can’t stop thinking about you.”

_Hang. Up._

“Stay out of trouble, all right? Just… stay safe.”

That was more than enough. Enough to assure he’d gotten his point across. Enough to make him feel downright pathetic. As he sets the pay-phone back on the dial, he’s immediately flooded with just about every emotion associated with defeat. Regret. Desperation. Despair. Effects of the alcohol, he justifies.

It’s the first time he’s contacted her since their last night together. Why it’s taken him this long to reach out and reconnect he’ll never know.

Carlos wasn’t exactly keen on going their separate ways to begin with, no matter how inevitable the act was. They’d started off on opposing sides, truth be told. He was a mercenary with a rough past as a communist guerilla recruited by Umbrella, and she was a former member of STARS. Their conflicting alignments had only initially imposed contention between them, however, until he’d learned the truth about Umbrella’s nefarious dealings and realized he was no more than an expendable pawn in the grand scheme of it all.

Their partnership was the last thing either had expected, but it was crucial for their survival. Through the ordeal they gained trust in one another, developed mutual respect and understanding.

And tension. There was always tension between them. Dramatic tension. Emotional tension.

 _Sexual tension_ – the kind that felt especially suffocating.

Carlos grunts. It’d be easier to just forget it all. Forget Umbrella. Forget Raccoon City. Forget his fallen comrades. Forget Jill Valentine…

He can’t. Every detail, no matter how small, has been etched into his memory. The nightmares hadn’t ceased even after his return to Colombia, tormented by visions of darkness, piercing screams, and a city disintegrated to ash.

But some nights he’s lucky enough to see Jill amid the hazy chaos of delirium.

_“Easy, lady. I gotcha.” He sprints to her rescue in fleet-footed urgency, fires blazing all around them as he helps her up._

_“Who are you?” she asks, disoriented. “What are you doing?”_

_“Name’s Carlos,” he replies in a rush, slinging her arm over his shoulder. “And I’m saving you.”_

Then he wakes up, reminded of two infallible truths.

He’s alive. She’s gone.

Reconciling his intoxication with his exhaustion, Carlos spares one last glance at the night sky before commencing the trek back to his apartment, head lazily tilted back, eyes half-lidded.

He wonders if she still thinks of him.

Wonders if she still thinks of that night.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! Just want to say thank you to all who have read and left comments :) I appreciate the feedback! And it's nice to know there's a good amount of people who also like this ship! 
> 
> And now for Jill's POV...

Jill is rarely ever home.

By the time she’s able to finally drag herself into her apartment after conducting several days’ worth of recon with Barry Burton, it’s four in the morning and the burden of sleep deprivation weighs heavily on both body and mind.

With blatant disregard for her weary state, she flips the lights on and narrowly avoids knocking over a potted plant on the kitchen counter as she rifles through the cabinets overhead. She reaches for a cup and fills it with water from the sink, then heeds her thirst with one hefty gulp.

Eight days. She’s been gone eight days and her apartment’s just as she left it – with the exception of the pile of unopened mail nestled on the counter.

And her answering machine – it’s blinking. She notices the tiny red light flashing through her peripherals. Someone had tried to call her. Probably Chris. Or Rebecca.

A sigh dispels from her lips as she slowly ambles to the coffee table in the living room, relieving herself of her jacket before plopping down onto the couch.

Jill hits the play button and slumps back.

_You have two new messages_.

She closes her eyes and waits, still fighting sleep as the first message plays.

_“Hey, it’s Rebecca. I know you’re still probably… at work, but I wanted to talk to you about something. Call me when you get the chance. Bye.”_

Predictable. Hopefully Rebecca won’t mind waiting until she catches up on her sleep.

_Next message. Received Friday at 12:41am_.

Jill rubs her temples. There’s a pause before the second message plays. Strange.

_“Jill… it’s me.”_

She jolts upright in an abrupt shudder, her muscles tight and clenched in anticipation. That _voice_. She knows that voice.

It takes all of but three words and she’s back in Raccoon City, thrusted violently into its depths. Deeper… deeper…

_“It’s been… a while. I just want to know how you’ve been.”_

Jill’s lips quiver, and her entire body trembles in recollection.

“Carlos.” The name leaves her mouth in a strain. A choke. A gasp.

_“I… I can’t stop thinking about you.”_

She’s gone numb. She can’t think straight. The room feels like it’s spinning on a turbulent axis.

_“Stay out of trouble, all right? Just… stay safe.”_

The call ends. The machine beeps.

But her mind is still reeling, her heart still thundering in her chest. The moment lapses in a blur, the memories returning in full force as the room slips back into silence. Memories of a blazing city, a monstrous creature, her fallen comrades…

Carlos.

Her hand trembles as she reaches for the machine again, unable to steady its relentless shaking. She replays his message. Again. And again...

_“Just… stay safe.”_

Her thoughts are scattered in disarray. Her stomach lurches. Her heart breaks. She hasn’t felt this devastated since they’d parted ways.

_It was for the best_ , she insists, though she’s unsuccessful in convincing herself – no matter how many times she repeats the ill-fated mantra.

Jill contemplates returning the call. Out of courtesy and nothing more. She owes him that much.

But she can’t bring herself to commit to the gesture; knowing full-well the moment she hears his voice on the other end of the line, she’s done for. No going back. A hardline and irreversible decision. She’d have to exert every bit of strength and willpower to stay put – and not on the next flight to Bogotá like she desperately wants.

She’s only ever seen his hometown in pictures but the way Carlos had described it, voice full of joy and eyes radiating a nostalgic kind of warmth, had her yearning to explore every corner of the vibrant capitol city and experience it all for herself firsthand.

Jill seals her eyes shut and grimaces, shoving herself firmly back against the couch in nothing short of remorse. She wishes she could forget. Wishes she could cast off the memories to the darkest fringes of her mind, never to be summoned again.

Except he told her he loved her, and all pretense was gone. His touch was no longer just for comfort. It became a true embrace with all the romantic implications of devotion and intimacy.

She’ll never forget that night. Never forget the crimson walls of the hotel room, or the moonlight spilling from behind the thin curtains. How she writhed beneath him at the tender stroke of his hands, his fingers lightly tracing along bruises and scars like the frayed lines of a map.

Jill leans forward and buries her face in her hands. She left him. Left him when he was most vulnerable. Left him with only a note to compensate for her silence. She had to, or else he’d plead with her to stay, and she’d lose herself in him, over and over again…

_One call_ , she compromises. Just one call and then she can move on with her life.

Before she can reach for the phone, there’s a knock on her door, firm and concise.

Jill slowly rises to full height, one hand hovering above the gun at her hip. She peers into the peephole and relaxes her tense demeanor as best she can, welcoming her guest inside upon confirming he poses no threat.

“Chris,” she says, nodding at his arrival. “What are you doing here?”

Chris waits until she’s shut the door behind him before answering, ensuring their privacy. “Heard you just got back. Wanted to check up on you and see if you were all right.”

Jill folds her arms across her chest, and hums in appreciation. “I’m fine,” she lies. “Thanks for keeping an eye on the place while I was gone.” She nods at the mail on the kitchen counter.

Chris follows her line of sight and sighs. “Yeah, it was starting to pile up,” he says with a shrug. “Did my best to keep everything tidy, but with how neat and organized you are, you made my job easy.”

Jill smiles, but it’s rueful. “This place hardly looks lived in,” she mumbles. “But thank you, Chris.”

He only nods at that, but the subtle clenching of his jaw and the almost imperceptible shift of his broad shoulders suggests he wants to say more.

“So,” Jill continues, sensing his hesitation. “How’s Claire?”

Chris studies her, but only briefly, before replying. “She’s better now. I’m trying to convince her to go back and finish school.” He steps forward, regarding her closely now. “Jill, are you okay?”

Judging by the pensive look on his face, it’s obvious he’s detected _something_ , but Jill’s not sure how. She’s managed to keep her composure perfectly neutral; her face blank, her posture upright, her tone leveled.

“Yeah,” she answers on impulse. “I’m a little tired. I just need to rest up.”

Guilt prods away at her for omitting the truth, but she simply doesn’t have the energy to dump such tedious emotional woes onto her unsuspecting colleague. Chris knows about Carlos, as do Rebecca and Barry - but none of her closest friends are aware of her intimate affairs with the former mercenary.

Jill figures it’s best to keep her trysts locked away in the bedroom. Never one to kiss and tell.

Truth is she’s never even come close to severing her emotional attachment to Carlos – and if that particular bit of information were to somehow fall into the wrong hands, god only knows what sort of disastrous repercussions would follow.

She can’t risk it. It’s a sacrifice she’s willing to make.

If Chris is still unappeased, he doesn’t show it. “Sure,” he says, snapping her from her reverie. He stalls for a moment, his concentration seemingly shattered when she reciprocates with her undivided attention. “You know you can always talk to me about anything, right?” The words come out with some difficulty, but it’s well-meaning.

Jill softens at that. While she respects Chris for his leadership qualities, it’s his compassion she finds most admirable. Simply put, she firmly believes her world would not be the same without him.

“I know,” she finally says, but she leaves it at that.

The guilt lingers even after Chris leaves, layered beneath an overwhelming horde of conflicting emotions. Crawling into bed offers little consolation, her body constantly tossing and turning. Any hope for sleep is all but lost, her mind racing a mile a minute.

All she can think about is the fragmented memory of Carlos carrying her to safety after she’d been infected with the t-virus, pleading with her to hold on, _just hold on,_ a little longer while he searched for the vaccine. In spite of sporting twice as many wounds, he risked his own life to save her. He owed her nothing; could’ve left her to fend for herself.

But he chose to protect her.

Jill grips the sheets, her knuckles turning white.

_One call._

She rubs at her eyes.

_Just one call._

She sits up. Yawns.

_Hopefully it goes to voicemail._

Gets up from bed. Walks to the living room.

_What time is it over there? Bogotá’s only one hour ahead…_

Reaches for the phone. Stops.

_What am I even going to say?_

Reels hand back. Huffs.

_Stop overthinking it._

Presses phone against ear. Dials number. Waits.

_Please go to voicemail._

Rings.

_Please go to voicemail._

Rings…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next update: Tomorrow or Sunday at the latest :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're back! As always, thanks for the kind reviews and feedback!  
> Didn't wanna leave y'all on a cliffhanger for too long, so please accept this next update as my peace offering 😅
> 
> Just a heads up, the beginning is slightly violent, but like, we've all actually played or watched playthroughs of the RE games, right? 😅

Carlos can’t tell whose blood is stained on his fatigues.

Whether it’s his or one of the drug-runners he encountered on a routine assignment to a small mountain village he’ll never know. Not that it matters, seeing as how between the two of them, only one made it out alive.

After that particular excursion, he’s lucky he’d only suffered a flesh wound in the firefight. Bastards were terrible shots, easily outclassed by the skilled tacticians they’d foolishly provoked. What should have been a simple job quickly turned into a hostage crisis; with a woman and her two young children being held captive as a bargaining chip for the criminals’ escape.

Carlos has done this job hundreds of times – but he especially hates it when civvies get involved.

His squad outnumbered the band of criminals five to three, the odds overwhelmingly in their favor. The sniper of the unit managed to take two out from above a dilapidated building – but not before the third took aim at Carlos as he shielded the family from gunfire. The bullet in his arm hurt like a motherfucker; all-too familiar with the searing pain of lead piercing his flesh. He’s certainly been through much worse, all things considered.

Dodging the last of the bombardment, Carlos lunged forward and repaid his assailant with what was left of his clip, firing with first-rate precision. Blood had spattered all over his fatigues, thick like paint, smearing onto his neck and face.

And that was the end of it. Another mission accomplished and he gets to collect the bounty and go home.

Except “home” offers little reprieve.

Carlos is all patched up, not as drunk as he’d like to be, and completely _done_ with bounty-hunting bullshit as he limps into his apartment. He paces back and forth between the kitchen and his bedroom, unable to decide if he’s tired or hungry. He’s neither, so he drags himself to the living room and turns on the TV, uncaring what channel it's left on.

While the local news streams, volume low, Carlos strips from his tattered clothes, his muscles aching with every jostled movement. There’s no way these stains are washing out, and _fuck_ , it’ll take multiple cycles just to get rid of the stench.

Shit, he really needs a vacation.

He’s narrowed it down to his top three picks for a destination when a familiar chime pierces the silence of his apartment. His phone; someone’s calling – at this hour of all things.

A bizarre mix of confusion and curiosity crosses his face as he picks up the phone on its fifth ring, unsure what to expect from the other end of the line.

“Dígame,” he answers, grimacing. He quickly switches arms, irked by the inconvenience of his dominant arm having been pierced by a bullet only a few hours prior.

There’s nothing on the other end. Not a word nor a single breath.

Carlos speaks again, this time in English. “Hello?”

He stays on the line, and it’s not long before he gets a response.

“Carlos,” the voice says. “It’s Jill.”

It’s quiet again, but only fleetingly, the moment flaring with anticipation. Something about hearing her voice doesn’t seem real, like being tormented by a cruel fever dream.

The rush completely blindsides Carlos in the brief lull of their long-overdue exchange, his thoughts a tangled mess. They’re not strangers meeting for the first time, yet he struggles finding the right words to say.

He chuckles a little, like the complete nervous wreck he is. “So I take it you got my message.” A start.

“I did,” Jill replies, and Carlos only wishes he could see her. “I would’ve returned your call sooner, but I just got back from-” She stops, immediately cuts herself off and shakes her head. “I just got home. It’s been a long week.”

Carlos frowns, all-too familiar with the sentiment. “It’s okay,” he assures. “All that matters is that you’re safe.” He wills himself to leave it at that, and it’s gut-wrenchingly painful.

But Jill knows him. Knows he’s merely treading carefully. She can feel the words he won’t say, clear as soundwaves. Feels the rigid strain in his voice, as if it’s clawing at his throat for release.

“What about you?” she asks, and she’s already concerned before hearing his response. “How have you been?” She hates this. Hates how forced the conversation is. How the distance between them is so fucking excruciating.

 _Please don’t make me answer that_ , Carlos thinks as he mulls over the past week. The past _year_.

He opts to be evasive. “I’m still alive,” he says, peering down at his bandaged arm. “Things could be worse.” They could be better.

Jill’s stomach drops. She envisions an entirely different scenario playing out in her head had this exchange unfolded in person, face to face. Different as in _pouring-out-every-heartfelt-emotion-and-confessing-their-true-feelings-before-fucking-against-the-wall_ different.

That’s it. She’s done beating around the bush. Enough of this bullshit small-talk. They owe it to each other to render their most vulnerable selves. Their most honest selves.

“Carlos,” she begins, her breathing controlled. “Do you still think about Raccoon City?”

The question stalls him for a moment, but he’s complicit. “Yeah,” he says, with certainty. “There’s not a day that goes by that it doesn’t cross my mind.”

Jill swallows, thickly. “Me, too,” she admits, devoid of all prior reservations on the matter. “What do you remember most?”

A few beats pass, both falling silent under the gravity of reliving past horrors.

Carlos brutally snaps back to reality. Whether it’s the trauma or the bullet-wound in his arm that obstructs his concentration he’ll never know.

“I remember the chapel,” he begins, darkly. “I remember when we were holed up in the clock tower after you were infected with the t-virus.”

Jill’s hand twitches at the memory of a candlelit room, its lavish furniture, and religious texts scattered on the floor. She’d asked him to kill her should her worst fears come to pass; the thought of transforming into a hideous, mindless creature a fate worse than death.

But he vowed to find the vaccine – and he kept true to his word.

Carlos clenches the fist of his free hand, muscles taut. “I’d never been more afraid of losing someone. I couldn’t…” He pauses, collects himself. “I couldn’t stand the thought of losing you.”

There’s a crack in their steely control; two tortured souls unraveling at the seams.

“You didn’t,” Jill finally says, warm and comforting. “You haven’t.”

Maybe the distance was for the best – because god knows she misses him with visceral ache, and all she wants is to lose herself in his touch. Surrender to his embrace like it’s her own private sanctuary.

“Jill.” Her name eases from his lips, forlorn yet full of need, and it nearly drives her to the edge. “It was you. I only survived because of you. You kept me going, even when I thought our chances were slim.” A pause. “You gave me purpose.”

The revelation confirms what she’s always felt – that it was fate that brought them together.

“You gave me hope,” Jill says, bordering on emotional collapse. She conceals her anguish. Betrays no frailty. “You were the only one I could trust.”

Another revelation, but this time it’s dismally inadequate. Not enough to convey her deepest feelings.

But it serves as an unspoken invitation; a means of testing the waters.

“Do you still trust me?” Carlos asks, voice weathered, expectant.

There’s no hesitation. “Yes,” Jill affirms. “Always.”

“Then let me see you.” Carlos sways between asking and telling. Pleading and commanding. “It’s been so long… I need to see you.”

Jill reflects, her chest tightening as if twisted in knots of guilt. She’s heard this before, but only in dreams. Dreams where they’re back in the clock tower, seeking refuge from hellish creatures and the pouring rain. Dreams where it’s their last night together in the hotel room after escaping Raccoon City.

He asks her to stay every time. Tells her he’d never leave her side.

But this time he sounds so broken, like he’s bracing for rejection but wouldn’t have any kind of respect for himself unless he told her how he felt. He’s not alone in feeling that way; devastated and forlorn. So lost and so desperate.

Jill tenses against the faint catch in her breath, frustration turned inward.

She can’t stand it anymore; shutting him out, depriving herself of her most intimate desires. Her feeble attempts to block the memory of Carlos from invading her thoughts are taxing enough, and soon she’s swarmed with visions of him towering over her, all broad shoulders and thick long legs. Visions of his handsome face and scruffy beard; the kind of rugged masculinity she finds especially attractive. And the soft gaze of his dark brown eyes when he looks at her, regarding her with tender observation like she’ll always be a mystery to him.

He says her name again, like it’s delicate, and the barricades come crashing down.

She's done for. No fight left in her.

“Okay,” Jill concedes, at peace with herself. “But I’ll come to you.”

Maybe it’s not about revisiting the past, or seeking a familiar face for comfort, she thinks.

Maybe it’s about moving forward, in small steps and giant leaps, crossing boundaries like they’re no more than lines drawn in sand.

Neither of them are strangers to a life of adversity, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like the idea of Bounty Hunter!Carlos. It's an AU I've thought about before...🤔
> 
> Next chapter: Jill finds herself in foreign lands...


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for the continued support! :) It means a lot!!! And sorry for all the cliffhangers!!😅 
> 
> Heads up, there's a few exchanges in Spanish in this chapter, so I have translation notes at the end! (Fellow Spanish speakers, please let me know if something sounds off! My spanish is super rusty lmao and my family's from Mexico so idk if there's certain idioms or words that might differ from the way spanish speakers in south america use them ?? I just wanna be as accurate as possible lol😭)
> 
> Anyway, read and enjoy!

Bogotá is much bigger than she imagined.

Jill’s flight lands 6:38pm local time, and she manages to fetch a cab before the top of the hour. She hadn’t informed Carlos a single detail of her trip. Not her ETA. Nor the location of her hotel. Nor the fact that she’d purchased a one-way ticket.

Completely off-the-cuff and off-the-books.

In her hotel room, she sets her travel bag on the bed and sifts through its contents for a small slip of paper with his address. It’s an apartment complex in the La Macarena neighborhood, about a thirty-minute ride from her current position. She contemplates calling him first – except she’s always preferred the element of surprise and, quite frankly, she’s unsure she has so much as a sliver of patience even for that.

A gust of air rattles the windows with enough force to seize her immediate vigilance, her line of sight leveled with the moonlight drifting through the blinds. A curious peek outside reveals stars shimmering brightly overhead and treetops caressed by soft winds. Urban Bogotá glints in the distance, the view nothing short of amazing.

She’s ready, she decides. She’s ready to see him again.

Jill folds the paper in half and tucks it away into her pocket. She gives herself a quick once-over in the mirror, finally having a private moment to gussy up after spending eight hours on a plane and another two in crowded airports. Her fingers lightly comb through her hair, smoothing over soft chestnut brown tresses with sophistication. It’s grown some over the past year – still, hardly drastic enough to alter her appearance. She’s confident that Carlos will recognize the same teal colored eyes, the shape of her nose, the nonchalant way she rests her weight on her hips. She’s confident that she _looks_ like herself.

Resolved to her objective, she sets for the door and closes it quietly behind her.

She’s on her way.

* * *

Jill doesn’t realize how rusty her Spanish is until she’s out in public again. Luckily, the taxi services are proficient enough in English to spare her the struggle entirely, accustomed to the daily swarm of tourists that come and go from the airport.

In spite of the small language barrier, she fares decently on her walk after the cab drops her off near a market square right in the heart of La Macarena. She’d thought about picking something up along the way before visiting Carlos. A surprise gift. A peace offering. A keepsake to make up for lost time.

She passes several stalls along the cobblestone streets, each boasting treasure troves of colorful trinkets and crafts. One vendor catches her eye, intrigued by a frail old woman working on pendants and traditional ornaments.

“¿Qué piensas?” the old woman asks, a smile spread across her face. “¿Te gusta?” She holds up a cross pendant, having just finished the beading.

Jill half-smiles in return, reserved but well-meaning. The design is beautiful, and definitely suits someone as sentimental as Carlos. She can already envision it resting above his collarbone, or dangling from his neck.

“Es hermoso,” she replies with a small nod. “¿Cuánto cuesta?”

* * *

Carlos lives on the third floor.

 _“It’s got a nice view,”_ he’d mentioned. _“It’s small, but it’s all I need.”_

Jill approaches the door to his apartment with a slow and collected gait, her body aching in anticipation of seeing it all for herself. Seeing his place. Seeing the view he cherishes so much. Seeing _him_.

She raises a fist and knocks, her other hand gripping the shopping bag from the marketplace in suspense.

Nothing.

Puzzled, Jill checks the time on her watch, wondering if perhaps she should have made prior arrangements and ensured he was in fact home. (And spoil the surprise? No way.)

Her watch reads 8:47pm. Knowing Carlos and his night-owl habits, she figures he’s probably out either raising a little hell or patronizing his favorite watering hole. Then again, the two aren’t exactly mutually exclusive.

“Salió.”

Jill turns her head to follow the voice, her gaze met with a middle-aged woman a couple apartments down, casually smoking.

“¿Conoces al hombre que vive aquí?” she asks, keeping the details to a minimum.

The woman nods, then gives her an all-knowing smirk. “Eres su novia. Que linda.”

Jill bites her lip, the bridge of her nose enflamed in scarlet. “Solo soy su amiga,” she replies, voice holding more conviction than she truly feels. “¿Sabes donde está el?”

The woman ponders for a moment, taking a long drag from her cigarette. “Dijo que tenía hambre,” she answers. “Hay un restaurante a la vuelta de la esquina que le gusta mucho.”

Jill picks up on the implication. It’s worth a shot.

* * *

Carlos isn’t used to taking home leftovers, but he’s not complaining about the double-sized portion the restaurant owner offered as thanks for keeping the neighborhood safe.

He helps out when he can; makes sure thugs and other unsavory types steer clear from the hard-working families that call this part of town home. The police aren’t much help given all the rampant corruption in the force, but he has several trustworthy contacts he can rely on if the need ever arises.

Carlos has also been a regular at the place for a while, ever since he’d first moved into the neighborhood. The owner likes him, that much is obvious; always welcomes him with a broad smile and clasp of his hands, knows his order by heart, enjoys his company for the occasional rant about fútbol and boxing.

Jill would get a kick out of it, he muses. He’s often imagined where he’d take her if she were to visit – and the restaurant definitely scores a spot on the list.

If only.

On his walk back home after dinner, Carlos takes a moment to listen, clearing his headspace of cluttered thoughts. Traffic whizzes by, music streams from a loft across the street, and people chatter and laugh as they mill about.

He eases his pace to a stop when a stray dog crosses his path, swerving out of an alleyway in search of whatever food it can scavenge.

“Pobrecito,” he mumbles.

Carlos whistles for the dog’s attention, motions for it to heel. The stray is hesitant to obey; tail slightly tucked, head dipped to sniff the ground. But as soon as Carlos kneels down and pulls out a piece of chicken from his leftover box, the dog reacts on hunger-fueled impulse and eagerly accepts.

It takes a couple more pieces of chicken before the dog becomes comfortable enough for a pat on the head, a couple scratches behind the ear, an endearing stroke along its back…

The dog’s head perks up, suddenly on alert, peering over Carlos’s shoulder.

Carlos hums in confusion. “¿Qué miras?” he asks.

His question is left unanswered until he turns around and slowly stands to full height, knees faltering. His mouth falls agape, and he blinks several times as if to process the scene before him. 

He’s dreaming. He _has_ to be.

“Jill?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation notes:  
> * ¿Qué piensas? - "What do you think?"  
> * ¿Te gusta? - "You like it?"  
> * Es hermoso - "It's beautiful"  
> * ¿Cuanto cuesta? - "How much?"  
> * Salió - "He went out"  
> * ¿Conoces al hombre que vive aquí? - "You know the man who lives here?"  
> * Eres su novia. Que linda. - "You're his girlfriend. How pretty."  
> * Solo soy su amiga - "I'm only a friend."  
> * ¿Sabes donde está el? - "Do you know where he is?"  
> * Dijo que tenía hambre. - "He said he was hungry."  
> * Hay un restaurante a la vuelta de la esquina que le gusta mucho. - "There's a restaurant around the corner that he really likes."  
> * Pobrecito - "Poor thing."  
> * ¿Qué miras? - "What are you looking at?"


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um... [yeah](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_cNSaXkqFaU)... and [yeahhhh](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rsEne1ZiQrk) ❤️  
> (^ sets the mood...)
> 
> What to expect: Slight Angst and then sMUT. You've been warned😅 
> 
> And as always, thank you all for reading!

Jill’s breath catches at the sight of him.

Carlos is merely a few feet away, crouched down, his back to her as he feeds a stray dog. He hasn’t felt her presence just yet; unaware she’s finally found him, finally come to see him in his hometown after an entire year spent apart.

With rapt observation, Jill stalls and waits to intervene, fortifying her nerves. Something about seeing him again feels off. Unreal, like she’s dreaming. But she knows it’s Carlos. She’d recognize the man anywhere – the slight hunch of his broad shoulders, his curly tousled hair, the gracefulness of his large hands.

And his _voice_. No matter what language is spoken from his lips, she knows the gruff yet calm manner of his voice that’s equal parts enticing _and_ intimidating.

As her thoughts drone on a repetitive cycle of longing and unease, she absentmindedly takes one small step forward, instantly catching the dog’s attention.

Carlos tilts his head, his back still turned to her. “¿Qué miras?” he asks the stray.

When he finally shifts himself to face the source of concern, he too is at a loss for words.

Jill watches as Carlos rises to full height, noting the slight faltering of his knees. He looks considerably tanned, well-rested, and somehow indefinably at peace. He’s clad in civilian clothes, and she can see the outlines of his muscles rippling through the fabric.

“Jill?” he finally says, breaking the silence as though it were meant to be shattered like glass.

She’s not dreaming. She knows that. He never sounds this close, this _real_ , in her dreams.

Carlos makes the next move when she offers a small nod, his dark brown eyes drinking her in. He allows a single beat to pass and then clears the distance between them, reaching for her as though it’s his lifeline.

At long last, Jill immerses herself in the familiar solace of his embrace, arms looped tightly around his shoulders. She burrows into his warmth, meets him chest to chest, and breathes in his scent. Musky, like cedar and rum. Her eyes roll to the back of her head and she clings to him tighter.

_Fuck_ , she’s missed this.

“You’re here,” Carlos whispers, like he can’t believe it. “How… when…?” He’s unable to settle on a question, his brain too scrambled to string a single coherent thought together.

Jill nuzzles against him, head resting against his chest, his heartbeat beneath her ear. “Just got here,” she reveals, clutching at his sculpted back muscles with all her god-given strength. “Didn’t exactly plan it.”

Carlos pulls back to look at her, and that’s when she sees the withering remnants of pain reflected in his eyes. She’s no stranger to his vulnerable side. She remembers that night in the chapel after contracting the t-virus. Remembers their last night together when he confessed his love for her.

The same devastation is blatantly transparent in the drastic shift of his bearings, clouding his features with protective concern – and maybe a bit of uncertainty.

“Why?” Carlos finally speaks, voice gravelly with emotion. “Why are you here, Jill?” Persistent, he lifts his hand to cup her jaw and tenderly strokes his thumb over her cheek.

Jill relaxes at his soothing touch, feeling her eyes well up. “I just… couldn’t stay away any longer,” she whispers. “I needed to see you.”

He regards her for a moment, reads her expression closely. Jill takes a deep steadying breath before leaning in, pressing their foreheads together.

“Come home with me,” Carlos says, soft yet urgent.

Jill nods in agreement. “Okay.”

* * *

His apartment is cozy.

Jill takes her time moseying from room to room, fingers tracing along the walls and furniture, her eyes sweeping over pictures hung in wooden frames.

Carlos is quick to point out the dual arched windows in his living room, eager to show off his humble abode’s most charming amenity.

“On a clear day the views are panoramic,” he says, pulling back the curtains. “Monserrate is just west of us.”

Jill peers out the window and fixes her sights on the faded outline of the mountain, surrounded by the vast expanse of rolling hills and dense forests. Even in the darkness of night, she can make out the famed structure at the summit; an old church built during the colonial period.

“It’s beautiful,” she replies, placing her hand in his. She turns to face him, mouth slightly agape as if to say more.

Nothing comes out – and whether it’s because she’s afraid of spoiling the heartfelt moment or because she’s so mesmerized by the way he looks at her, she’s unsure. So she seals her lips and convulsively squeezes his hand, calmed at the sensation of his warm, calloused palm connecting with hers.

Carlos moves in a little closer, silently asking for permission in the determined way he holds her gaze. He stops when their lips are a mere breath apart, waiting. Jill instinctively meets him halfway and accepts the unspoken invitation with a slight tilt of her head, pressing her mouth against his with surety. She moans quietly into the kiss, her stomach fluttering as Carlos slides his hands down to her waist.

“It’s been a while since we’ve been this close,” he whispers into her ear, sending a small shiver down her spine.

Jill can’t fathom how he’s managed to keep his composure about himself – while she on the other hand desperately wants to get him out of his clothes and fuck him senseless; completely aware of the fact that, yes, it _has_ been a while, and now that he’s got her all hot and bothered, he needs to rectify the situation before she loses her ever-loving mind.

“It’s been _too_ long,” is all she can manage before their lips collide again, her body thrusting against him.

Carlos groans in frustration, abandoning all prior restraint at her provocative behest. His arms wrap around her, lifting her up as though she weighs nothing at all. In one fluid motion he stands to his feet, her legs straddling his waist, and carries her to his bedroom.

He deepens the kiss as he lays her down on his bed, her head spinning at how effortlessly she’s maneuvered around by his strong, muscly arms. She shifts more comfortably beneath him, languidly absorbing the pressure of his body mounting above her. His hands are everywhere, cupping her breasts, roaming down her waist, flooding every inch of her like an electric current. Jill fumbles with his zipper aggressively, her kisses growing more and more desperate.

She breaks away to voice one small grievance. “Is there a reason we’re still clothed?”

Carlos huffs in amusement, nibbling down her neck before hoisting himself up. “Great minds think alike.” In luxurious full view, he pulls his shirt above his head and tosses it aside, revealing his bare chest and rippling abs. His pants follow suit, joining his shirt in a pile on the floor.

Jill bites her lip in spiked arousal as he crawls back to her, her heart pounding in her chest as Carlos grips the waistband of her pants. With hands that are anything but gentle, he tugs them off, dragging them down her thighs and calves before ridding them entirely. At that, she teasingly separates her legs, wide and inviting.

Carlos settles himself in between the valley of her thighs, reaching for the hem of her shirt. She obliges by bundling the fabric up towards her breasts before peeling it over her head in slow cross-armed motion, shimmying out of the excess layer with ease.

In a blur, Carlos leans in to kiss her again, his hands circling to her back. He unhooks her bra with quick nimble fingers, and Jill can’t help the involuntary contraction of her abdominals as both straps cascade jaggedly down her shoulders. The cool air of the room engulfs her and she tenses up in awe, but not a moment too soon Carlos’s body is covering her again, his muscles like a warm protective shield layered above her. As her bra falls to the floor, he tenderly lowers them both back against the mattress, his mouth wandering from her lips to the pulse point on her neck.

He descends further still, sucking gently on her breasts, dragging his tongue down the lissome slope of her abdomen.

On impulse, Jill shifts her hips impatiently, unable to withstand the torment of waiting.

Carlos heeds her unease, lifting his head to meet her gaze. “Tell me what you want,” he murmurs against the delicate skin just below her navel.

“You know what I want,” Jill breathes, feeling the damp spot between her legs practically soak under duress.

His smirk is the last thing she sees before he dips his head low again and hooks his fingers around the fringes of her panties, slowly pulling them down her trembling legs. The feeling of complete exposure has Jill immediately feral with need, her body humming in anticipation.

She tilts her head back as Carlos positions himself between the junction of her pelvis, his breath ghosting over her pulsating cunt. He licks his lips as he draws closer to her most sensitive part, and all she can think about is how his plush mouth has made her come countless times before.

“Fuck,” Jill whispers, gasping at the sensation of his finger slowly stroking up and down her clit in feather-light touches. “ _Carlos_.”

Her quiet pleas are hushed the moment she feels his mouth slide along her wet folds. His tongue swirls around in deliberately slow circles at the soft bundle of nerves, indulging in her taste. Heat pools in her core like the faint beginnings of an inferno, her breathing hitched, her chest rising and falling in gradual succession.

Jill moans, loud and appraising when he picks up the pace, her toes curling and vision fading to white. She achingly reaches down to brush the hair out of his eyes, then buries her fingers through his thick locks as he continues devouring her.

She’s close. So close to coming undone and falling apart. She cries his name, pleads for him to keep going, mumbling a litany of filthy curses. Her release looms closer, her body writhing expectantly.

Carlos groans against her throbbing cunt, arms gripped around her thighs as his tongue swirls faster and faster and his mouth sucks harder and harder. He keeps her steady as he brings her to orgasm, feeling her body shake upon nearing climax.

And then she’s coming- _hard_. Jill spasms and her core flutters frantically at the sweet release. Her mouth falls open, gasping, whimpering, as the pleasure tears through her. Waves of ecstasy wash over like the calming waters of rainfall, her mind going blank and her senses lulled to peaceful silence.

Her body goes rigid, her chest heaving in the afterglow. Carlos climbs above her, brings them face to face, their hips aligned. He kisses her forehead, and lies on top of her in a weightless heap.

“Tired?” he asks, burying his face in the crook of her neck.

Jill blinks into focus, still dizzy with pleasure.

But sleep is the last thing on her mind.

“Oh no,” she insists, her hand drifting down to his cock. “We’re not done.”

Carlos doesn’t need to be told twice. They have all night to make up for lost time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gonna head outta town for a few days so I'm glad i was able to squeeze in one more update before taking off!😅
> 
> Next chapter will arrive just in time for *Valentine's Day ❤️  
> Coincidence? I think not! ;)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I'm late and I'm sorry!!! D: I had so much going on these past few days (and this past holiday lol) BUT here is the next update!!!  
> Thanks to those who have reviewed and left kudos!!!! It means a lot!!! :')  
> I hope everyone had a wonderful (Jill) Valentine's day!!!!

Jill wakes up the next morning to the sound of rain pattering against the window, tangled in the sheets and alone. Confused, she wrestles with the duvet for a moment before tugging her hands free and peering over at the nightstand in search of the alarm clock.

8:37am. Much later than she’s accustomed.

Eyes half-lidded, she lets out a yawn and sits up, pulling her arms above her head in a stretch. Right as she’s about to call for Carlos, she’s instantly hit with the familiar scent of dark roast coffee and something sweet and… cinnamon?

Jill sniffs again, and listens carefully. Her hearing picks up the chime of cutlery, the faucet running in the kitchen sink, and the turning of knobs above the stove. 

She can’t help the smile curving at her lips, wondering what kind of surprise Carlos has prepared for her. With another yawn and quick series of stretches, she steps out of bed and quietly redresses, opting to raid Carlos’s closet for a comfy oversized shirt.

After fixing her messy hair, Jill stealthily meanders into the kitchen, dutifully following the heavenly swirl of aromas.

Carlos turns the stove off and finishes chopping the last of the fruit before turning around, slightly alarmed.

“Sneaking up on me?” he quips, looking way too gorgeous this early in the day. He promptly greets her with a small kiss on her forehead. “Go back to bed. I was gonna bring this out to you.”

Jill shakes her head, fingers grazing down his chest. “I’m awake,” she assures. “Let’s eat at the table like civilized folk.”

Carlos concurs with a nod. “Okay. Everything’s done. I just need to grab some plates and a couple mugs.”

“I can get that,” Jill offers. Carlos points out the cupboards overhead and then directs them to the kitchen table.

With the dishes set, Jill sits down and waits as Carlos brings out the coffee pot, the eggs, the pancakes, and fresh fruit.

“Nice presentation. Looks amazing,” Jill compliments, marveling at the display. “Didn’t know you cooked.”

Carlos downplays it all. “This is just something I scrambled together because I know you Americans like your breakfast foods,” he says with a chuckle. “But I make a mean Sancocho. And my mother’s homemade empanada recipe-” He tilts his back in recollection, pure unaltered joy lathered on his face- “To _die_ for.”

Jill helps herself to the coffee pot, finding his enthusiasm endearing. “You got me curious now.”

Carlos smiles as he plops a hefty serving of pancakes and eggs on her plate. “I’ll cook for you,” he promises. “You are my guest after all.”

Jill averts her gaze, slightly flustered. It’ll never cease to amaze her how he’s the one and only person who has that effect on her. “You’re sweet,” she says quietly, sampling his handiwork.

As she savors the lingering taste of cinnamon on her tongue, Carlos points out the bag she’d brought the night before, sitting idly next to the couch in the living room.

“So what’s in the bag?” he asks, taking another sip from his coffee mug. “Are those your things?”

The memory of the marketplace and the gift pulls Jill from the allure of her plate, her mind in scattered perusal. “No, I didn’t pack _that_ lightly. I left my things at the hotel.” Small oversight on her part. “Um… but _that_ -” She nods toward the bag again- “Is for you.”

Carlos quirks a brow, intrigued. “You got me something?”

Jill nods but says nothing more, covering her mouth full of food. Carlos wastes no time obliging his curiosity and gets up from the table to retrieve the bag. He peeks inside and reaches for the gift, eyes alight with fascination.

The pendant dangles from his hand, and he’s utterly mesmerized by its intricate beading.

Words completely elude him, and judging by the tender expression on his face and the soft focus of his half-lidded eyes, Jill wonders if it’s been a while since he’s received anything from anyone.

“Try it on,” she encourages, popping a small piece of fruit into her mouth as she watches expectantly.

Carlos complies and adjusts the chain around his neck, the cross pendant resting above his collarbone. His fingers absently glide along the beads as he returns to the table, still adrift in his thoughts.

Before Jill can so much as pry, Carlos leans down to kiss her, allowing his actions to communicate his gratitude.

“Thank you, Jill,” he whispers, kissing her once more before sitting back down.

Jill manages a half-smile in acknowledgment, running a hand through her hair in an effort to distract from her flustered state. Maybe it’s not just the gentle graze of his lips on her skin that has her feeling this way. Maybe it’s more than just his dark eyes and handsome smile that makes her melt like a hopeless fool in love.

It’s the strange domesticity she finds herself in. Sharing the same bed. Having breakfast together. Gift giving as though celebrating some sort of anniversary.

It’s companionship. It’s intimacy. It’s-

“How long are you staying?” Carlos’s question catches her off guard, throws her entire equilibrium off balance.

It takes her a moment but Jill finds subtle focus in the swarm of rain pelting the window, the incessant rhythm clearing her mind.

“I don’t know,” she answers honestly. “I only got a one-way ticket.”

It’s in that small sliver of reflection that she remembers her things packed in a thick duffle bag, still slumped idly on the bed of her forgotten hotel room. Given the sudden switch of her accommodations, it’d be best to check-out early.

Jill doesn’t hint at the predicament. Seems an easy enough task anyway. Like running a simple errand. “I’m gonna need to pick up my things from the hotel.”

Carlos seems surprised – and definitely anything but disappointed. He gives her an appreciative smile and hums. “Yeah, I thought it was odd that you’d shown up empty-handed.” He quickly peers over his shoulder, assessing the current weather conditions. “We can get your stuff from the hotel after breakfast. The rain should let up later this afternoon.”

Jill’s interest is piqued, knowing full-well his keen observation of the weather is indicative of future plans. “Have something in mind?”

Carlos nods. “I’ll take you for a walk around the city,” he replies. “We can do a little sight-seeing.”

Jill scoots her chair slightly forward and rests her elbows on the table, admiring him in silence. What she would give to just linger in this moment a little longer, completely suspend herself in time.

“I’d like that,” she finally says.

* * *

Carlos drives an old but well-maintained Renault 4s.

It reminds Jill of when she used to visit her father in France as a young girl; the streets laden with small economy cars of a bygone era.

She’s momentarily lost in childhood memories as she peers out the passenger window, the sights of downtown whirring past in a blur. There’s people – tourists and locals alike – milling about the streets. Shops and cafes line both sides of the elaborately paved roads, flaunting an abundance of bright pastels and tropical fare.

With her belongings safely locked away in the trunk of the car, they casually cruise along with the radio tuned to Cumbia, venturing deeper into the historical district of Bogotá. Jill marvels at the gradual change of scenery, the lights dancing in her eyes as the atmosphere shifts from modern design to colonial elegance. It’s almost like taking a step back in time, reflective of the city’s history.

“I’ve never been somewhere so… colorful,” Jill remarks, eyes widening in awe.

“You’ve traveled a lot, I’m sure,” Carlos says as a segue to prying. “You’ve been to France and Japan.” He slows the car down, surveying the streets for a parking spot.

“Apples to oranges,” Jill says. “It’s all very… different. The culture. The people. The ambience.”

Carlos nods in understanding, but holds off from pursuing the subject after finding an open parking spot underneath an array of palm trees. After sidling the car curbside, he kills the engine and promptly unbuckles his seatbelt.

“I’ve always wanted to go to Japan,” he admits. “There’s so much I want to see and experience firsthand.”

Jill finds his candor rather endearing. It’s like being let in on a secret only she’s privy to. “I spent most summers in Japan with my mother, growing up,” she says, stepping out into the warmth of the midday glow. “We have family in the Gifa prefecture. They live in this beautiful countryside town nestled in the mountains.” She stalls outside the car, contemplating. Reality comes back into focus at the feel of Carlos’s hand interlocking with hers.

“Sounds like it’s been a while since you’ve visited,” Carlos discerns, studying her wistful expression. “Takayama, right? That was where your mother was from?”

Surprise flashes in her gaze at his retention. “You remembered that?” she asks, absorbing the familiar sensation of his strong calloused hands as though his touch is the only nourishment her body needs.

Carlos smiles, gentle, like it’s a grand gesture of devotion. “I remember everything you told me about your trips to Japan and France, splitting time between your mother and father.”

Inexplicable yearning looms over her, kindling in her chest. “I was a cultured kid. _Was_.” She scoffs, and shakes her head. “But then my father fell for the American dream.”

“There are worse places to call home,” Carlos offers for the sake of optimism.

Jill bites her lip, uncertainty etched on her face. “Maybe,” she replies. “Except, Chicago never felt like home. But neither did Paris, or Takayama…” She trails off, voice lulled to silence.

Carlos regards her with subdued sympathy, respectfully allowing her a quiet moment of introspection.

“You know,” he begins, clearing his throat, “My grandmother used to say, ‘El hogar no es un lugar. Es un sentimiento.’ Which means, ‘Home is not a place. It’s a feeling.’”

Jill mulls over his words, as if having an epiphany. “You think there’s truth in that?”

Carlos doesn’t hesitate for a second, and nods. “I do.”

It takes a split-second for both to let it all sink in, sidling closer to one another as if caught in a gravitational pull. It’s in these brief intervals of silence that they find solace; their thoughts perfectly in sync in the way their eyes meet as an unspoken test to the limits of their connection.

Neither feels compelled to look away.

Jill doesn’t break his gaze, but she’s curious enough to dip further below the surface of their quiet reprieve. “What’s on your mind?”

Carlos absently licks his lips, pushing away the impulse to reveal everything all at once. “A lot,” he supplies, leaving the details unsaid. “I just… still can’t believe you’re here. With me.”

Jill’s expression softens at that, her lips quivering and her heart sinking. Without another word, she closes the distance between them and gently presses a lingering kiss to his mouth, her pulse subdued with unfounded nonchalance.

“There’s no place I’d rather be,” she whispers, her lips caressing his once more.

They stroll hand-in-hand down the bustling streets of the historic district, exchanging fond memories of growing up in their respective cultures while the calm and serene sights serve as the perfect backdrop to reminiscing. 

Unbeknownst to them, they’re being watched – from a distance.

Umbrella has eyes _everywhere_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> can it be April already


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did y'all see that new trailer tho
> 
> 😦

It’s moments like these that make Carlos wish he were an artist.

A dozen words come to mind when he looks at Jill – beautiful, stunning, gorgeous, resplendent – but none of them come close to doing her any justice in this kind of light.

Jill leans against the railing of the terrace outside a bustling cantina, her tanned complexion bathed in the fading midday glow. She’s all dolled up and adorned in a lovely knee-length dress, flaunting just the right amount of bronzed skin.

In what feels like another realm entirely, the sky bursts alive with colors known only to the obscure precision of gradient scales. Rosy hues dance alongside violets and oranges across the horizon, but Carlos doesn’t bother with so much as a glance when he can see traces of the sky’s radiance painted across Jill’s lips and cheeks, and woven in between the sun-kissed strands of her hair. He doesn’t need the stars or the moon or the sun – not when he has Jill shining in her own light right beside him.

“That’s one thing you can always count on,” Jill says, closing her eyes to savor the warmth of the parting rays of sunlight on her skin. “Sunsets are beautiful no matter where you are.”

Carlos is inclined to agree, except his sights are locked on the elegant silhouette of her face, illuminated by the last traces of day bleeding from the thin wisps of clouds before summoning nightfall.

Traditional Cumbia picks up from the cantina, the music like the call of a siren. Jill can’t help the slight swerve of her hips, the subtle sway of her shoulders in sync with the rhythm.

Carlos is perceptive enough to sense her curiosity, heeding her muted fascination with an invitation that cuts right to the chase.

“Come on,” he coaxes, taking her by the hand as he nods toward the cantina. “Dance with me.”

All Jill can think as she follows closely behind him is who in their right mind would say ‘no’ to that offer.

“And here I thought I’d seen all your moves,” she quips. “I have to be honest. I’m not much of a dancer.”

“Sure you are, supercop,” he persists, bringing them to the center of the dancefloor, already crowded with couples. “Relax, I’m a good a teacher. Just follow my lead.”

Jill nods and studies his movements, her hips rocking back and forth like it’s the most natural thing. She mirrors her body with his, matching his footwork and simple motioning of the arms evenly. Her limbs feel loose and pliable as she learns the basics, like her entire body’s unraveling from the torment of tangled threads and knots.

“See, you got it,” Carlos commends. “Now move with me. I know you can.” He takes her hand, incorporating simple turns into the next sequence of steps. Picking up the pace, he rotates her into a spin, smiling with pride as she completes the turn and faces him again. “That’s it, Jill. You’re a dancer.”

Jill loses herself to the electric feel of his touch as he draws her in closer. Loses herself to the haze of couples sashaying around them. The music blares with intensity, and the dim lights in the cantina bathe the atmosphere in silver and blue hues; cool and airy.

They’re keenly aware of each other’s every move, every breath, every burning sensation when they touch. The languid sliding of body against body creates friction like slippery heat and hardened flame – fierce ignition from what began as a mere spark.

The rhythm of the music speaks to them, giving life to things long buried and best forgotten. But he hears it. And she hears it. They listen with their hearts and bodies because some things are not heard with ears and minds. Within the strains of music are the silent exchanges of bold and daring glances, rousing the wild pounding of their hearts with no buffer to stifle the abrasive tension.

Carlos’s hands tighten reflexively on her hips as the song comes to an end, lowering her into one final dip before reeling her back upright with gentlemanly grace. He suppresses a low groan when she grinds her hips against him, his jaw clenched with restraint.

Jill softly pants in recovery, sweltering from the heat of his embrace. “I could do this all night,” she whispers, skin tingling with tiny beads of sweat.

“I know,” Carlos whispers back, gently brushing the wild strands of hair from her face. “But I think we could both use a drink.”

Still catching her breath, Jill makes a quiet noise of assent at the suggestion, eyeing the bar through her peripherals. “Lead the way.”

At the bar, they casually sip on mojitos and cool off from the raging heat of the dancefloor. Jill nods along as the music cycles from Cumbia to Champeta to modern pop. Her head feels lighter, and her thoughts roam freely.

Carlos slams his empty glass down on the counter, and Jill anticipates he’ll order another round.

Instead, he shocks her. “Have you ever thought about kids?”

Jill nearly chokes on her drink, far too sober to so much as dignify that question with a response. Confusion twists her face into something out of a Picasso gallery; an expression that belies nerves.

Hell, there’s no way _he’s_ drunk enough for this conversation, but curiosity gets the better of her and before she can properly filter a response she’s committed to indulging him. Humoring him. Humoring herself.

“Well that’s a bit out of left field, but sure,” she admits, the confession fumbling gracelessly out her mouth. “Why? Have you?”

Carlos gestures at the bartender for another round before answering. “Hell yeah,” he replies emphatically. “I’ve always wanted a family.”

Jill contemplates as she finishes her drink to catch up, her thoughts venturing into consequential matters on the subject. She cuts him off before he can elaborate.

“How realistic is that for people like us?” she asks, straightforward as ever. “Given our past and our line of work… the future is too uncertain.”

Carlos mulls over her assertion. “You’re not still…?” He blinks a few times as if to process. “STARS is gone. Raccoon City’s no more than a pile of rubble.” He’s unable to reach a conclusion with only fragments of knowledge regarding her current affairs, his expression turning serious. “Jill, what do you mean? What are you involved in now?”

Jill sighs at length, and waits until the next round of drinks are set before them. Resolved to her candor, she meets his gaze and holds nothing back. “I work with a few of my former associates from STARS,” she reveals. “We started up our own force after Raccoon City’s destruction. Even have the backing of several pharmaceutical companies.” She shakes her head when Carlos gives her a skeptical look. “I’m sure they have ulterior motives, but that’s a whole ‘nother issue entirely.”

“I take it you and your friends are after Umbrella?” Carlos says more than asks.

Jill nods, expecting him to chastise her or criticize the cause completely.

He does neither. Only downs his entire drink in one go, averting his eyes.

“Do me a favor then,” he says, gruff. “Give ‘em hell.”

Jill half-smiles, but it’s remorseful. “What about you?” she asks. “How have you been holding up since…” She stops there, as if tentatively approaching a minefield.

Carlos huffs. “When I came home, I went back to the only life I knew. Still a hired gun. Same shit. Only difference is I don’t have to deal with zombies and other fucked up creatures.” He sighs and runs a hand through his hair before finally turning to look at her. “Maybe you’re right, Jill. Maybe people like us don’t have the luxury of feeling safe. But I’m not gonna let that stop me from living.”

His words strike something within her; something deep and personal. Hurts like a serrated knife to the chest to hear it out loud.

“We’re survivors,” Carlos says, interjecting her quiet period of reflection. “We’ve been through hell, seen some real shit, and somehow we’re still alive. I think we owe it to ourselves to live how we want and not let the past dictate our future. And you – well, you’ve always been a hell of a lot braver than me.”

Now his words strike something else, and yet the ache in her chest is something she fears and wants in equal measure.

If only this could be easy, she thinks. If only they could wake up the next day and just disappear. Run off somewhere remote, quiet. Make the conventional family life their reality. They could adapt to a simple, maybe slightly boring routine. They could be happy.

The thing about trying to save the world is that it’s utterly pointless. You stop one bad guy, another rises up to replace him. It’s a never-ending cycle of death and destruction. There’s never a true victory.

Jill nurses her temple with her free hand, her wandering mind dizzy to no end. Headaches are the only thing that result from fruitless attempts at justifying the fucked up things she’s seen.

“You okay there?” Carlos asks, concerned he’s crossed some sort of line when she remains quiet.

“Yeah.” Jill nods, shutting her mind off from the convoluted intricacies of her inner musings. “Forget I said anything. I’d rather not get into Raccoon City and Umbrella…”

Carlos merely nods in understanding, although there’s something forced about it.

He has a point, she realizes, resigning herself. And right now, in this moment, they’re together, they’re dancing, they’re drinking, they’re celebrating being alive. Being _in love_.

That’s the only thing that matters.

“Carlos,” she begins, moving in close, “I know I don’t say this enough… but I think you’re amazing.”

That earns a small chuckle from him. “Had enough to drink there?” he quips.

“I mean it,” she whispers, leaning in until their foreheads are pressed together and her breath lingers sensually over his mouth. She’s done being so guarded. Done with holding back. “You have no idea how much I missed you. How much you mean to me.”

She’s close enough. He should just fucking kiss her.

But he waits for her to initiate, for her to angle her head ever so slightly.

He’s about to devour her lips when an inexorable thought suddenly crosses his mind.

“You know,” he starts, smiling like the adorable idiot she’s grown to love, “we would make good babies.”

Jill succumbs to the soft laughter bubbling in her throat, keeping her amusement subdued as best she can so as not to give him so much as a sliver of satisfaction.

But it’s no use. She finds him sweet and endearing and so goddamn irresistible it physically pains her. He’s the only one who makes her melt like this. Makes her head dizzy with lyrics from stupid love songs and sappy poetry. Makes her heart swell in her chest to the point where she thinks it might burst.

It’s real, she reminds herself. It’s all real.

“Let me guess,” she drawls. “You want two. A boy and a girl.”

Carlos feigns a look of consideration. “Doesn’t matter to me,” he says with a shrug. “But I definitely want a mini-Carlos to play catch and work on cars with.”

Jill smiles and rolls her eyes. “A mini-Carlos,” she repeats. “I don’t think the world’s ready for that just yet.”

But by the end of the night, Jill already has a few names picked out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to every single reader whose stumbled across this!!!!   
> To the new readers, welcome! :) To the og readers, y'all are seriously the best! :)))  
> (Apologies for the hiatus. School is kicking my butt!)
> 
> Six days!!! Six days until the release, people!!!!! It's almost here!!!!!!!!!!!
> 
> So glad this ship is finally getting the recognition it deserves, like damn lol D':


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i might edit this later, but i'm tired and i've made y'all wait long enough lol :/
> 
> thanks for reading this! :') sorry for the delayed update, but everything's crazy with school stuff and the c-virus. ughhh
> 
> hope everyone's doing well! hang in there!!!

The pantry in Carlos’ apartment is severely lacking when it’s usually stocked with the essentials.

“It’s as desolate as an inhabitable planet,” he jokes, closing the pantry in shame. The fridge is in equally terrible shape.

He invites Jill to join him on a quick grocery run to the farmer’s market a few blocks away. She's fresh out of the shower, clad in one of his shirts again. A little outing wouldn't hurt. 

“I can practice my Spanish,” she decides, and Carlos’ lips curl in amusement.

“Por supuesto,” he says on their way out. He follows closely behind her, his hand on the small of her back.

* * *

At the market, Jill points out various fruits and vegetables, testing her competence in basic Spanish vocab.

“Fresas,” she says, gesturing to a loaded bin of strawberries. Carlos nods.

Then she motions towards the grapes. “Uvas.”

Carlos nods again. “Correcto,” he says, playing along. He bags a hefty pound of grapes and leads the way across the aisle. “What about these?” He points out a crate of peaches and a separate crate of nectarines.

Jill taps her chin in thought. “Duraznos,” she answers for the peaches. “Y… nectarinas,” she answers for nectarines. “This is too easy.”

She’s quick to identify the pineapples (piñas), the bananas (plátanos), and the grapefruit (pomelos) before approaching the last fruit on Carlos’ list. The papayas.

But Carlos is clear on one thing. “You can call them ‘papayas’ in any Spanish-speaking country – _except_ for Cuba,” he warns, chuckling. “Learned that the hard way.”

“Why’s that?” Jill asks, curious. Come on, he can’t just leave her hanging.

“Well,” Carlos begins, clearing his throat, “over there, it’s a slang word for… something else.” He then fails to elaborate, sparing her the specifics on the vulgarity of the term. He’s in the presence of a lady, after all.

Jill catches on and pieces it all together, visualizing what the fruit might resemble if one were to examine through a perverted lens.

She rolls her eyes at the realization. “Oh that’s _bad_ ,” she says, avoiding the papaya bin as though a single glance would expose her to an epidemic of hideous sights.

“Hey, I warned ya,” Carlos quips. He grabs another basket as they move on to the vegetable stands.

Jill retrieves the lettuce like she’s on a scavenger hunt. “Lechuga,” she claims. Carlos gives her the thumbs up.

“How do you say it in Japanese?” he asks when she sets a couple lettuce heads in the basket.

“Retasu,” she replies. “Easy to remember.”

Carlos repeats the word, then moves along to the carrots. “What about these?”

“Ninjin,” Jill says, grabbing a small bundle. Carlos motions to the mushrooms, and Jill answers accordingly. “Kinoko.”

They come across the last two items on the list.

Cucumbers, to which Jill offers: “Kyuuri.” And Carlos supplies with: “Pepino.”

The tomatoes possess similar linguistics. “Tomato,” Jill says, holding one up for emphasis.

Carlos offers the Spanish variation. “Tomate.” He scoops up three and nonchalantly juggles them with ease. Show off.

Sometimes Jill forgets he’s younger than her – until he pulls stunts like juggling vegetables at a farmer’s market. It’s especially hilarious knowing he’s capable of wielding powerful weapons and snapping men in half like they’re no more than twigs.

The duality of Carlos Oliveira.

Jill smiles and scans over the grocery list one last time as they head toward the checkout stand. “I think that’s everything,” she says, linking her arm with his.

Carlos secures his grip on the grocery bags and nods. “Thanks for the language lesson,” he drawls. “I’m ready for Japan now. Next up is France.”

Jill chuckles, in spite of herself. “Hardly,” she scoffs, pumping the breaks. “You have a long way to go before you’re at the conversational level. Takes time and patience.” She pats him on the shoulder as a means of encouragement. “On the plus side, Spanish and Japanese pronounce their vowels the same. Might make it easier for you.” They position themselves in line, and she clears her throat. “And most importantly, you’ll have _me_ as your teacher.”

Carlos warms at that, teeth tugging at his lower lip behind a mouth sealed shut. He’d like to think it’s his charming influence and wry sense of humor that’s got her to open up over time, but it’s deeper than that. Far too complex to write off as typical companionship.

He kisses her forehead, lips lingering at her hairline, and smiles. “Lucky me,” he whispers.

“Lucky you,” Jill replies, her arm still fastened with his. Feels nice. She likes how his muscles contract at the slightest tilt or shift.

Then she remembers, and her smile fades, pinned back to a neutral state. Her hand squeezes him, impulsively rather than intentionally.

“I’m due for another trip to Japan soon to visit my family,” she says. “I was hoping you’d come along.”

There’s a certain subtlety to her words that Carlos can feel, like it’s strained. Subtlety in the sense that it’s delicate, as opposed to some attempt at being coy. Jill is anything but coy. Reserved, maybe. But never coy.

Still, he’s beyond elated to receive such an honor, a privilege, in her invitation. He respects that they don’t come easy.

“All you gotta do is name the time and the place,” he says. “And I’m there.”

Because when it comes to her, it _is_ that easy.

Jill instinctively curls closer against him. There. It’s settled. She can’t take it back. She’s stuck with him.

She’d laugh if her thoughts weren’t such a frayed mess; a parallel to the dangerous and inconsistent nature of their work. Might be worth considering before committing to another couple’s retreat.

“Problem is…” she muses. “Neither of us have a conventional work schedule.” She peers around, keeping her voice low. She’s confident they can get away with a few things while conversing in English, but vigilance is key. Keeps her alive.

“I take all the work I can get,” Carlos says, leaving that purposely vague. Being a hired gun has its pros and cons, he’d explained to her. The pay’s usually decent, but the jobs (ranging from bodyguard to courier to collecting bounties) are often wildly unpredictable. While some assignments are over in a matter of seconds, others stretch on for _days_. And forget all the perks and amenities of a traditional office setting – Carlos has trudged through muddy swamps, stormed beaches at the peak of monsoon season, and embarked through rugged terrain of forests and jungles in the raging heat.

Hell, he can add Raccoon City to his ever-growing resumé while he’s at it.

On a less serious note, he vows to stick with freelance work. Never again will he fall for the false promise of financial security from an evil corporation like Umbrella.

He really could use a vacation though. (At least Umbrella offered paid vacation time…)

Bastards.

“I’d certainly appreciate a change of pace from all the…” His voice trails off, and he pantomimes finger guns and explosions with his hands. You know. Violence. Scary creatures. Death.

Jill concurs with a nod, eyes wide in acknowledgment. “You read my mind.”

They’re up next in line, and Carlos quickly pays the cashier for the assortment of fruit and vegetables. Jill offers to carry a couple plastic bags, and by the time they’re street side again, she’s already taken a few bites out of what might be the plumpest peach she’s ever sunk her teeth into.

On the walk back to the apartment, peach juice dripping from her fingers, Jill’s mind promptly flips on auto-pilot. She thinks about her friends back in the states. Chris and Rebecca are aware she’s taken some ‘personal time off,’ but neither had questioned her reasons for doing so. They hadn’t asked where she was headed either – and she can’t decide if that’s good or bad.

Jill figures they already know. She can’t say for certain; it’s just a feeling. Intuition, perhaps.

She wonders how Carlos gets by, working solo and all. It must be difficult not having a reliable support system. At least, she thinks so, anyway. Her relationships with Chris, Rebecca, and Barry (complex as they are) have strengthened her over the years. Changed her life completely.

The upside to being a lone wolf is the independence, she supposes. No one to answer to. No one depending on you. With solitude comes some semblance of autonomy.

Except Carlos doesn’t exactly strike her as the lone wolf type. He’s entirely too altruistic for that. Hell, the fool spent nearly twelve hours scouring the ruins of Raccoon City for her after she’d been infected with the t-virus.

Maybe he sticks to the strict principle of compartmentalization out of necessity. Keeps social life separate from work life. Doesn’t mix business with pleasure. He’s only ever mentioned the restaurant owner around the corner of his apartment complex. That’s one friend, she presumes. What about his neighbors?

Wait.

The woman. The one who lives a couple doors down. Jill had an awkward encounter with her the day she arrived. She seemed to know Carlos decently enough.

Speaking of which…

“Your neighbor has ideas about us,” Jill says, withholding context. “About us _together_.”

“What?” Carlos asks, amused. “Which neighbor?”

Jill mentally backpedals. “Didn’t get her name, but she’s middle-aged. Has light brown hair and hazel eyes.”

The description is enough for Carlos. “Ah, that’s Lucía,” he says. “She only recently moved in. Still new to the neighborhood.” He shrugs. “I haven’t really gotten to know her all that well. We’ve chatted a few times, but nothing beyond obligatory polite conversation. Seems nice though.”

Jill’s brows knit together in a tiny crinkle of concentration – or confusion, rather. Lucía seemed familiar with Carlos’ evening habits. Seemed more familiar than she let on.

She shakes her head to rid the thought. She’s reading into it too deeply.

“I don’t think she’s from these parts,” Carlos says, like it’s odd.

“How can you tell?” Jill tilts her head questioningly.

“Her accent,” Carlos replies. “I can’t quite place it.” He dismisses the notion as hardly relevant. “Anyway, what did she say exactly?”

Jill answers like she’s delivering the punchline to a joke that’s been made a thousand times. “She was under the impression that I was your _novia_ ,” she recalls, rolling her eyes.

Carlos laughs, predictably. “So much for keeping a low-profile.”

* * *

They take the elevator up this time. It’s slow, as usual – which serves as part of the reason why they tend to opt for the stairs. It’s only three flights up but with hefty bags of groceries on each arm neither want to risk a disastrous mishap.

Besides, Jill likes the elevator music. It’s quirky.

Carlos turns the TV on as they restock the fridge and pantry with fresh produce and other essentials. Violent protests and political turmoil headline the news flashing on screen, and all he can think about is how he yearns to go somewhere quiet and remote. Somewhere the government won’t kill you for civil disobedience.

He sighs at length and Jill approaches from behind, intuitively placing a comforting hand on his shoulder.

“There’s a lot I’d like to see with you, Jill,” he says, wilted optimism clinging to the prospect of their future travels. “I want to see where you’re from and meet your family.”

Ah, Family. He knows a handful of things about her own upbringing, but she’s been left mostly in the dark about his childhood.

“You will,” she says, and she means it.

She doesn’t have to pry into his own family or his past. He brings it up himself.

“My mother lives up on the coast in Barranquilla,” he reveals after a fleeting stretch of silence. “She’d like you. You two have a lot in common.”

Jill recognizes the faint edge in his voice. A twinge. An ache. Phantom memories of his old life. When he was young and innocent.

“What about your father?” she asks, half-expecting the question to be deflected.

But Carlos is unsurprisingly forthcoming. “He left before I even learned to walk. Don’t know much about him. All I had growing up was my mother and my grandmother.”

He rubs the back of his neck, alleviating pressure coiled at his nape. He stops at the sensation of Jill’s hands spreading further along his back, gently kneading his shoulder blades before encircling her arms around him.

She keeps quiet, listening intently with her chin nestled above his shoulder.

“The distance is hard,” Carlos continues, words heavy with the burden of guilt. “But it’s for the best. I gotta keep her safe.”

Jill knows the feeling. Understands that sacrifices must be made to protect the ones you love.

But it never gets easier.

“When was the last time you saw her?” she asks, breath delicately grazing his neck.

Carlos clenches his jaw, and looks down. “It’s been a few months.” He sounds emotionally drained. Maybe a bit frustrated. He rotates his body to face her, peers down at the tender shift in her expression before cupping her cheek. “As soon as I have enough money saved up, I’m getting the hell outta this place,” he reveals. “And I’ll get my mother outta Barranquilla. I’ll take her somewhere the cartels and crooked cops won’t bother us. Somewhere my job won’t put her life in danger. Somewhere…”

“Somewhere Umbrella can’t find you,” Jill finishes for him. And he nods.

“I’m close, Jill,” he says. “I should only have to take on a few more jobs and I’ll be set.” He pauses, briefly, and holds her gaze like it’s magnetic. “I just want to ask one thing.”

Jill lifts her head expectantly, hands still clutching his shoulders. “What’s that?”

She blinks. Carlos leans in a little closer.

“Will you come with me?”

* * *

Everything she needs to know about Carlos is sitting right in front of her, condensed in a leather-bound dossier. The manila folder beneath it contains vital information regarding the mission. Post-it notes are scattered in disarray on the coffee table, offering various detailed accounts of what she’s observed thus far.

She tosses her wallet and fake ID on the kitchen counter, having returned to the apartment from a quick smoke break. She’s been expecting a call. Should come any minute.

But there’s a knock on her door first.

With silent footfalls, she slowly paces down the hallway, hand hovering over the gun at her hip. She peers through the peephole and sees her landlord. She opens the door.

There’s no small talk or preamble. No fake pleasantries.

“Págame.” The landlord snaps his fingers. Makes it clear he doesn’t have time for excuses or some sob story about how the rent is just too damn high.

She heaves a deep sigh and reaches into the front pocket of her jacket. She pulls out a wad of cash and hands it over. Paid in full. Courtesy of her employer.

“Gracias, Lucía.” Greedy asshole doesn’t even look her in the eye. Just takes the money and walks off.

She sneers at that. At his pathetic waddle back to the shitty old elevator. At how the floorboards creak below the weight of his tattered boots. At how she’ll never really get used to her fake name.

 _Lucía_. Fuck, she hates it.

But not as much as she hates being assigned to this babysitting job in Colombia. Why Umbrella has a hard on for some young merc is beyond her – and while Carlos seems useful enough, what makes him so special?

Maybe she’s being harsh. After all, the kid was one of only a handful of survivors to make it out of Raccoon City. Gotta give credit where credit is due.

The phone finally rings. That’s her call.

“Lucía” shuts the door, double checks the locks, and makes a beeline down the hall. She picks up on the fourth ring.

Her employer is nothing if not direct. Cuts right to the chase. Demands what her findings are after a month’s worth of surveillance.

“Oliveira still has the same routine,” Lucia reports. “Does a few odd jobs to get by. Mostly gun-for-hire stuff. Keeps a low-profile.” She scans over his file, then tosses it aside. “Only thing worth noting is he’s got company now. A woman. Probably just some fling. No need to engage.”

There’s a long screech of static on the other end. Shitty reception.

“What’s next?” Lucia feigns patience, but she’d love nothing more than to reach into the phone and throttle the man on the other end of the line. “What are my orders?”

She hates feeling like a goddamn dog, waiting on a command. Sit. Stay. Speak.

“Standby,” comes the man’s response.

There’s a click, and the call ends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y'all... i saw [this](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/431501208051406268/) on pinterest and it literally murdered me
> 
> sums them up pretty well, i'd say 🤣


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow it's been a while... 😅 2020 sure has been wild, hasn't it??
> 
> Thanks for sticking with me throughout this messy ordeal lol 🙃
> 
> The next chapter's already done but it needs some serious editing (but it'll arrive soon enough!👀)

_“Your move, Jill.”_

_Curious eyes flicker over the board. Pawns have been sacrificed. Knights have journeyed. Bishops have roamed. Rooks have ventured. And just like that, her Queen is captured._

_Silence. She’s contemplating her next move, but she has few options._

_Her finger hovers over a bishop, then a pawn, then her king. She reels her hand back._

_She’s stumped._

_“You’re overthinking it.”_

_Her head perks up. She meets his gaze. His smile offsets the mood, weathered lines of his face exaggerated in the creases and folds spread across tanned complexion._

_She ignores him and peruses the board once more, stubbornly committed to the hope that concentrating hard enough will manifest the solution to her predicament in due time. They’ve been playing chess for as long as she can remember and while her strategy has evolved meticulously over the years, she simply can’t measure up._

_He always wins._

_Inspection over, she half-heartedly advances a knight. Safe choice, she decides, sighing in resignation. The move offers protection for her king, temporary as it may be._

_His next attack is ruthless. A rook swoops in and she’s blindsided, only then realizing her fatal mistake. Her last bishop has fallen, and her king is vulnerable again._

_“Check.”_

_Jill analyzes the aftermath in dismay, disillusioned by a battlefield turned massacre. She has one move left, sliding her king to the left in retreat._

_The enemy rook follows._

_“Check.”_

_Her king rears back. His rook steals a pawn._

_“Check.”_

_Her king moves to the right. His bishop ambushes her last line of defense, and now she’s trapped._

_“Checkmate.”_

_The words echo with a certain kind of umbrage that rattles her steely composure, still processing her demise as he reaches across the board and topples over her king. He doesn’t seem all that pleased._

_“You hesitate too much.” He says so every time._

_He gets up, chair grating harshly against the floor. He mutters something in French. Opens the window in the living room. Fresh air swarms in._

_“Rematch,” Jill demands, already setting up the board for another round._

_There’s no reply. The seat across from her remains empty, impressions in the cushion fading. She glances over her shoulder, expecting his tall frame and slumped gait to come into view. But there’s no one. Only fluttering curtains and creaking floorboards. A vacant room frozen in time._

_She calls for him, but he’s gone. It’s another one of his moves she hadn’t anticipated._

_She’s been fooled. It was never about pawns, kings, and queens._

_And now she’s lost something she can never get back._

* * *

Jill stirs in her sleep before slowly rousing awake. Her head throbs as she shifts to prop herself upright, both hands massaging her temples as her mind returns to consciousness.

She hasn’t dreamt about her father for a while, but it’s always the same. She’s a child, innocence shielded by blissful ignorance of how soulless and corrupted the world truly is. He’s middle-aged, worn and jaded from years of manual labor and blue-collar jobs. They live in the same brownstone flat of the same quiet neighborhood. Bare trees and grey skies reflect the typical seasonal changes of autumn to winter in Paris.

Few words are exchanged between them but she doesn’t mind. He’s more expressive with his actions - like there's a rare sort of candor in the things he _doesn’t_ say.

It’s what she misses most. The quiet afternoons they’d spent together. How she’d learned so much from the man in spite of the sparse levels of communication.

And as a child that’s all she wanted. She was content with their life. It wasn’t perfect by any means, but she considered herself lucky. Some children grow up never knowing their fathers.

 _It’s been too long_ , she thinks. _I need to call him_.

Jill stalls on the thought for a moment, finding clarity in returning to the present. She peers over at an empty bed, memory of her dream purged as the distinct beginnings of loneliness set in. She’d fallen asleep with her head pillowed on Carlos’s bicep, tucked into his side all soft and warm like she lived there.

Warmth still lingers from his side of the bed even in his absence, but it’s not the same. There’s no greater feeling in the world than finding rest in his arms, lulled to sleep by his gentle breathing and the tender way he holds her, like he’s afraid she might slip away.

Well… This is certainly not the ideal wakeup call, but she’s definitely known worse ways to start the day.

Except, much to her surprise, it’s dark out; not quite morning like she’d presumed. With considerable effort, she wearily crawls out of bed, sheets flung and twisted, pondering how long Carlos has been up after footsteps from behind the door confirm he hasn’t wandered too far off. When she finds him in the living room, she’s nearly rendered speechless.

It’s like she’s stumbled into an armory. Countless rounds of ammunition lay scattered in stacks on the table, collected from the stash he keeps hidden in the vents and beneath the floorboards. There’s a half-zipped duffel bag and fresh laundered fatigues sprawled on the couch. Guns and knives are all sealed and labeled in unnerving sophistication, glinting in silver and metal hues. A radio comm suddenly beeps from one of the pockets along the tactical belt strapped to Carlos’s waist, to which he’s quick to shut off.

Carlos moves on to his Kevlar vest, firm and snug against his chest, before acknowledging Jill’s presence.

“It’s too early for you to be up,” he says, though he hardly seems surprised. He must’ve expected this. “Go back to bed.”

Jill doesn’t budge. “Where are you going?” she asks, already regretting the words before they’re even spoken.

It’s fairly obvious what’s going on, but she can’t accept it. She hopes her assumptions are mere delusions.

Carlos won’t look at her, fixated on loading one of the handguns from the lot. “I’ll be back in a couple hours, before the sun rises.” He grabs the duffel bag off the couch and shoves the loaded gun inside. “Stay here. Don’t go anywhere until I get back.”

“Back from where?” Jill tenses up, fine-tuned instincts waving all sorts of red flags. “Is something wrong?”

He finally looks her way and shakes his head. “No,” he replies. “I have to go to work.”

His answer offers little consolation. From what he’s told her, ‘work’ could be anything. Not even the guns and knives narrow it down.

Jill pursues the matter like it’s criminal. “Without letting me know first? You were just gonna slip out without saying a word?”

She catches herself from pressing the subject beyond that, forced to confront the fallacy – no… _hypocrisy_ – in her anger. She has no right to inflict such accusations. Not when she’s guilty of the same. Of _worse_.

Now that their roles are reversed, she has no leg to stand on.

Jill rakes a hand through her hair, her grievances willed to silence by wafer-thin fragments of self-restraint. Carlos frowns, and whether he’s hurt or merely offering sympathy, Jill can’t tell. Maybe it’s a bit of both.

“Look,” he begins, “I don’t know all the details either. Just a name, a location, and how much I’m getting paid. That’s usually how it is.” He huffs, humorless. “But I do my own research. Most of the hits are criminals anyway.”

“ _Most_?” Jill knows she’s not asking the right questions, but that’s the first one that springs to mind.

Carlos shrugs. “The others just hadn’t been caught yet.” He checks the time. He’s running late.

“So it’s _that_ kind of job,” Jill mutters. Well obviously. He wouldn’t be packing so much heat otherwise.

Carlos nods and laces up his boots, the room falling silent again.

Something inside Jill snaps, her nerves completely frayed and dismantled. Just a few days ago she and Carlos were planning a myriad of globe-trotting adventures, sharing their most intimate secrets, envisioning a future together.

Any hopes for that are instantly shattered at the sight of him gearing up for what could only be a bloodbath. And how can he be so casual about it? Telling her he’s off to work like he’s heading to a cheery office cubicle downtown.

“It’s what I do for a living,” he finally says, reconciled. Like he never had a choice.

But there’s always a choice. Jill’s always believed that.

And then it hits her – all at once. There’s a possibility he won’t make it out alive. It scares her that this could very well be the last time they ever speak. The last time they’re ever face to face. She’s already decided she can’t live without him. She’s tried that – and it was the worst kind of deprivation. Torturous, even.

No. She won’t lose him. She’ll see to that herself.

“I’m going with you,” she asserts, leaving no room for argument. Adrenaline courses through her veins with tumultuous force, fueled by internal stimuli she’s never felt before. Her pulse quickens, her stomach twists, her blood boils. It’s Raccoon City all over again.

Carlos loosens his grip on the duffel bag and lets it fall to the floor. He watches her swipe a knife and an incendiary device from his private arsenal, follows her as she storms off into the bedroom. He leans against the doorway, arms folded across his chest, merely an observer to Jill’s impulsive raiding of his closet.

“You’re not coming with me,” he tells her.

Jill’s search for appropriate hitman attire continues anyway, the outcome less than favorable. It’s an ill-fitting ensemble, no doubt, but the material appears durable enough. She tosses it on the bed, hangers and all, and turns her back to him.

“Yes, I am,” she protests. She’s redressed almost as quickly as she’d undressed.

“I’m serious, Jill. This isn’t up for debate.”

She ignores him, puts on her boots and ties up her hair. She heads for the living room again but doesn’t make it past the door.

Carlos stops her in one arm, then surrounds her with the other, both curled around her body like the wires of a trap. There’s no escape - and he’s stronger than her.

“Please don’t make this harder for me,” Carlos whispers, voice heavy with emotion.

This isn’t a game. Jill knows that. But she’s not hesitating anymore. Not when the stakes are this high.

“Thought we were partners.” Those were his own words. She’s just repeating them. Sounded a little nicer coming from him though. “That’s how we survived Raccoon City. We stayed together.” She squirms in his grasp, but her resistance proves futile.

Carlos gives her an apologetic look. A look that is the sum of all his pain and fear – and regret. “This is something I have to do on my own,” he says. “Just… trust me on this.”

He’s hiding something. Explains why he’s not his usual stupidly optimistic self. Explains why he’s so cold when he’s usually warm and endearing.

Explains it. Doesn’t excuse it.

“Tell me,” Jill pleads. “Tell me what’s really going on.”

Clock’s a tickin’. Carlos doesn’t have the time nor the energy to reveal the specifics.

“When I get back,” he replies, hoping that’s enough.

It’s not. Not by a longshot.

“What if you don’t make it back?” The question slips out, and it can’t be undone.

Jill’s crossed the line, but she’s desperate. Desperate for the truth. Desperate to be released. Carlos doesn’t waver, only tightens his arms around her when she starts to struggle again.

“I will,” he says, and he means it. “I’ll come back for you, and then we’ll leave this place. We’ll go wherever you want.” His eyes never break contact, his gaze piercing, determined. “You trust me, don’t you?”

It’s unfair, Jill thinks. It’s not a matter of trust. No, that would be borderline insulting. They should be past that at this point. After everything they’ve been through. Everything they’ve endured in a burning city, death lurking in the shadows, around every corner, behind every door.

“You already know the answer to that,” Jill contends. Her shoulders and arms bristle under duress, like a constricted airway, suffocating. She can think of several moves to escape. Standard maneuvers she’d learned in the military.

She hates that Carlos has put her in this position. Backed into a corner. No other options left so she resorts to acts of aggression to prove her point.

She can’t bring herself to do it.

“Let me go,” she persists instead. “Goddammit. Let me go!”

Carlos remains calm throughout the ordeal, but his eyes reflect a man on the verge of collapse. It’s what she finds most distressing – defense mechanism or not.

“If anything ever happened to you-” He pauses. A beat passes. “I’d never forgive myself.”

Jill shakes her head, knowing full-well _exactly_ where he’s going with that. “Stop,” she fires back. “This is different. This isn’t like when you had to get the vaccine after I’d been infected. I’m fully capable of handling myself.”

Carlos tips his head a little, faint lines of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth but it’s mirthless. Completely devoid of its usual spark.

“I know you are,” he says, expression softening.

And before Jill can make any further objections, he leans in and descends his lips upon hers. He kisses her the way he remembers the first time. Like she’s fragile, brittle; a complex tapestry of dainty threads that could snap and unravel at any moment. When Jill kisses back, it’s kerosene and a match, and she’s lost in the flames in the firestorm of his embrace.

He eases his grip on her but doesn’t let go, lifts his hands to her face, brushes his thumbs over her cheeks. Finally she’s freed, but she’s right where she wants to be – caressing his shoulders, fingertips trailing down his back, following the curves of his muscles.

Somewhere in the throes of passion his touch fades completely.

Between his shallow breathing and her appreciative moans, the faint rustling of his belt fails to draw her attention; far too awash in sensation to notice his hands have retrieved something from his pockets.

Then she hears a _click_ and it’s too late. It happens too fast for her to react in time; let alone react at all.

In the blink of an eye he’s got her wrist, firmly levels it with the doorknob, and cuffs her.

“Carlos…” Jill’s stunned, like she’s been paralyzed. “You’ve gotta be _fucking_ kidding!”

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, securing the metal restraint to the last notch. He tests the chain for good measure then promptly steps back. “I have to go. I’ll be back. I promise.”

“Carlos! Wait!” Jill wrestles with the handcuffs, her free hand yanking the silver rings to no avail. “Stop!”

But his back is turned and he’s already halfway to the door, duffel bag in hand.

“Carlos!” She calls for him again, and she can only wonder if _this_ is how she made him feel that fateful day. “I… I never told you-”

Only then does Carlos stop in his tracks, giving himself a moment to ward off the overwhelming urge to take her away and abandon their lives completely. Start anew someplace safe and far from everything they know…

Finally, he turns around.

“Whatever it is that you want to tell me,” he says, slinging his bag over his shoulder, “can wait until I get back.” He smiles, and somehow it’s the saddest she’s ever seen him. “Besides, I already told you. I’m not leaving you in a cold, cruel, Carlos-less world.”

It’s ironic, Jill thinks. Or maybe it’s fate. Maybe they’re always destined to go their separate ways.

“Carlos! Don’t-” She’s powerless to stop him now, watching helplessly as he heads out the door, her entire body aching with visceral unease.

_Please… don’t go._

The door shuts. Locks.

He’s gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy holidays! 🎄


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy very very very belated new year! 😅😬  
> I might edit this later so forgive any mistakes lol but i didn't wanna leave y'all hanging for too long :/
> 
> ahhhh! I am also super excited to announce that I will be working on the valeveira zine alongside many talented artists and writers! :) Come check us out and support in any way you can! 🤗 [Here's more info!](https://valeveirazine.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Hope 2021 is going well for everyone so far! :)

_“This is VRC Chief Nathanial Bard. September 29 th. 11pm…_

_I am acutely aware that my time’s running out. And I hope and pray by making this recording and bringing the truth to light that I can restore some small shred of honor to my name._

_All of Raccoon City’s suffering began with the release of a biological weapon known as the T-Virus. My employer, the Umbrella Corporation, engineered this virus… and they ordered my team to develop a vaccine, which we did. Now I keep samples of this vaccine here in my office. The rest of it is stored underground._

_But those sons of bitches on the board… they want to destroy it. They don’t want the world to know what they’ve done, so they’re trying to erase all evidence that the virus ever existed. Now I’m not a fool. I know they don’t want me to-”_

Understanding dawns on Carlos as the recording comes to its abrupt end, the computer screen glaring in static.

It was all a lie. His mission - rescuing civilians caught in the city’s turmoil - had been fabricated to say the least. And he’d _actually_ believed it. Even after everything he’d endured back home, between guerilla warfare and the cartels, he’d still fallen for yet another underhanded ploy. Except this time, the underhanded ploy consisted of high-tech weaponry, organized paramilitary units, and a shit-ton of money.

Apparently, it was that easy. Open a suitcase loaded with cash then slap on a fitted uniform and he’s committed.

Carlos always thought he was better than that. _Knows_ he’s better than that.

“My god, Jill knew all along. And she trusted me anyway.”

His palms stiffen, thick with sweat. He tenses for a moment, fists curling in both hands, then strikes the computer screen with a single blow.

“Fuck!”

He doesn’t dwell on it. He has to find that vaccine for Jill.

But he has to hurry.

* * *

Something about this Op isn’t right.

Then again, Carlos never feels “right” killing anyone. Few things can justify taking another human life, and convincing himself of this half-assed rationalization is the only way he can follow through with the act.

They’re criminals. They’re involved in drug trafficking. Human trafficking. Maybe they’re killers themselves. And that’s all Carlos wants to know about his targets. That they’re horrible, irredeemable scum and they deserve what’s coming to them.

The money keeps him financially stable, too – much to the detriment of his own sanity.

He doesn’t have a choice, he rectifies. He’s doing this to keep her safe.

But he can’t shake the feeling of leeriness even after he’s cleared two out of three targets, stabbing away at his conscience much like the knife wound in his arm. He’s lucked out with a superficial laceration, missed all the critical arteries and veins, and he’s managed to get the bleeding to stop with simple bandaging.

He’ll survive. Still has one more bounty to collect.

The last hit drags him to the second floor of an upscale apartment building. The lights are dim and everything about the place seems unsettlingly quaint. A stark contrast to the grimy warehouses and poverty-stricken villages he’s accustomed to.

Carlos ignores all the warning signs, rejects the notion he’s an intruder in someone’s home, violating the sanctity of this stranger’s domain while holding him at gunpoint.

Carlos hasn’t been inside the apartment for ten seconds before he’s sent the man flying across the room, body crashing to the floor in a violent thud. Blood trickles down his nose as Carlos pulls him up by the collar, eyes bulging open at the sensation of cold metal pressed against his head.

“Please,” the man coughs out, completely winded. “Don’t do this…”

That feeling again. This time Carlos heeds his intuitions. His targets rarely beg for their lives, usually because they’re returning gunfire, desperate for an escape. But when trapped in a corner, faced with the realization there’s no way out, their last words tend to be more combative and less… _pathetic_.

This man was in pharmaceuticals, Carlos remembers from the file, and allegedly involved in drug trafficking.

Allegedly.

The pause sends his thoughts in a whirl, composure faltering. Only then does Carlos catch a glimpse of the photo on the wall, pinned among swarms of other family pictures and mementos. The faces immediately stand out, protruding with a blatant kind of malice.

It’s none other than his neighbor Lucía, posing alongside the man who’d recruited him into UBCS two years ago; a coincidence too great to ignore.

The man squirms a little, confused as to why Carlos hasn’t finished him off yet, and seizes his opportunity for mercy. “Did Umbrella send you?” he croaks, and the question pieces it all together. “I… I thought we had a deal! I did what they wanted and kept my mouth shut!”

Carlos braces himself, but he’s unsure what for. “Umbrella?” He shudders at the memory, posture rigid. “What the hell are you talking about?”

The man stares back in horror. Clearly he hadn’t expected that. “They said… they said if I told anyone about… our research… they’d kill my family…” He coughs again. “But I haven’t said anything! I swear!”

“What research?” Carlos presses.

The man’s eyes narrow in suspicion, unconvinced of Carlos’s true affiliation. “You’re… not Umbrella?”

The question doesn’t address past association, so Carlos replies with an evasive: “No.”

But with that revelation, Carlos has lost any leverage he had left.

“I’ve… I’ve said too much already…” the man mutters, breaking eye contact. He winces as Carlos tightens his grip on his collar, but sucks in a dry sigh of relief when he puts the gun aside to reach for the photograph from the stash behind them.

The color drains from his face when Carlos holds it up. “You know these people?” he asks.

The man nods, swallows thickly.

But Carlos doesn’t get the chance to question any further. Not a moment too soon, he’s thrust back into reality, reminded of the truth he’d painstakingly avoided.

“Papá?” A little girl appears from the dimly-lit doorframe, clad in pink pajamas, a stuffed animal clutched against her chest.

All falls silent, and Carlos internally retches.

He flees the scene. His heart’s pounding. Mind racing. Legs sprinting with everything he’s got, heading nowhere in particular, darkness all around him.

He stops to catch his breath, the apartment building out of sight, streetlights of a deserted road buzzing overhead.

Where to go from here… What is he supposed to do now?

He can’t stop thinking about the girl.

It’s the last thing he remembers before the butt of a rifle knocks him out cold.

* * *

They don’t call her the “Master of Unlocking” for no reason.

It all started as a joke. Barry had given Jill the nickname at the Spencer Mansion upon learning she’d possessed the skill, handing over several bobby pins as tools to lockpick doors or safes or whatever else she’d come across.

It became force of habit to always carry one on her, although she’d always done so merely for luck and rarely ever needed it.

Everything comes full circle eventually.

The bobby pin’s in her back pocket, if memory serves. Jill fishes it out with her free hand, relishing the moment her escape plan comes to light. Carefully, she thumbs over the pin, pulling the two sides apart to straighten it out, and then bends the tip at a perpendicular angle.

“Too easy,” she mutters, almost finding humor in the mess she’s in.

She examines the handcuffs and finds the keyhole, all the while plotting a myriad of ways to exact her revenge on Carlos. Maybe one day she’ll be able to laugh about it, but until then he’s _toast_.

Brows furrowed in concentration, Jill slips the pin into the keyhole and bends it backward at an angle once more, creating a Z shape. She pulls it out and evaluates her handiwork. Perfect. Hard part’s over. She repeats the previous step, inserting into the keyhole but this time points the end toward the locking arm. From there, she twists the key – twists, twists, twists…

After a few tries, the lock lifts and she hears the all-too familiar _click_. The cuffs open, falling to the floor as she liberates her wrist.

Forget laughing about this later, she thinks. _Bragging_ about this later. Now that’s more like it.

She has a name to live up to after all.

Jill scrambles about the apartment, keeping her search for a potentially useful weapon brief. She’s partial to firearms herself, but anything will do. Safe’s out of the question, as Carlos never revealed the code. There’s the nightstand, but that would be too obvious, right?

She checks anyway and sure enough, a loaded gun is stored inside, practically ripe for the taking. (“Oh, Carlos…”) Extra ammo must be elsewhere, but she doesn’t bother. Time is against her. Every move, every second counts.

Now detective mode kicks in. He’s left his car keys. Either he’s out huffing it on foot or he had a ride. Jill has no idea where he’s headed, and in a city this big, it’s like searching for a needle in a haystack.

Then again, Carlos had spent almost _twelve hours_ looking for her back in Raccoon City. On foot. Fires burning all around and zombies running amok. So, she has no excuse not to at least _try_.

The car might help cover more ground, so she swipes the keys from the rack and hurries out the door. She locks it in a rush and turns around only to hear the cocking of a gun, aimed directly for her skull.

Jill faces the music - and is hardly surprised. “I knew there was something off about you,” she says, hands raised in indignant submission.

In a not-so-neighborly act of regards, Lucía smirks and centers her aim toward Jill’s sternum. “That’s close enough,” she says when Jill attempts a single step forward. “Now here’s what’s gonna happen next. You and I are gonna go somewhere a little more private and talk.” She nods towards her apartment down the hall. “How does my place sound?”

Jill shakes her head, slow and defiant. “If you’re just gonna kill me, you might as well do it here,” she says. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”

“Aren’t you the least bit curious where your friend’s run off to?” Lucía taunts, chuckling at the shift in Jill’s eyes, like she’s hit a nerve. “You have no idea where to even start, do you? Maybe we can help each other out.”

Jill makes a point of eyeing the gun, brow raised. “Doesn’t seem like you’re giving me a choice.”

Lucía clenches her jaw, patience wearing thin. “You don’t get it. We both want the same thing,” she asserts. “We both despise Umbrella. You want Carlos back. I want out. What’s the cliché? The enemy of my enemy is my friend.”

Jill lowers her hands, shoulders rolling back. Shudders. “You’re with Umbrella?”

“Not anymore,” Lucía mutters, keeping her voice down. She scopes their surroundings, wary of prying ears. “We really should continue this conversation in my apartment.” She lowers her weapon, keeps it at her side.

The gesture achieves little in easing Jill’s suspicions. “I don’t trust you,” she says.

“Look, kid,” Lucía scoffs, rolling her eyes, “if I wanted you dead, I would’ve already pulled the trigger.”

Fair point, Jill thinks. Although she still has no idea what could potentially be waiting for her the moment she steps inside that apartment.

“You comin’ or what?” Lucía persists, shoulder-checking her as she heads down the hall. “Time is of the essence.”

Jill follows, reluctantly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i miss writing fluff 😅

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](https://pieck-aboo.tumblr.com/)


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